


Many Days More

by AriesReign



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriesReign/pseuds/AriesReign
Summary: Martin Riggs won't leave this world without a fight, he has finally found a reason to hold on. The men bound to him by blood have worked tirelessly to bring him to his knees, but those who have become family through more unpredictable means will help him back up. He will not have to fight this war alone.Tag to S2, ep22: One Day More. A continuation of the series from the season two finale.





	1. Chapter 1

"Attention all units we have a 999, shots fired. All available units please respond. I repeat, shots fired, all available units respond."

The words fell heavily around him as he pushed the rising terror mounting in his chest aside. Every officer of law enforcement, from Detective to Captain, felt the weight that combination of numbers held. 999 - Officer down.

Roger forced his foot to the ground. He had met this sensation many times before. The dread that had accompanied each call for backup, every alert of shots fired, that frightening combination of the number nine, and in each instance, he had fought the overwhelming sensation that his partner was on the wrong end of the call.

Of course, a man like Martin Riggs could do that to you, instill a fear that lingered in the recess of your mind that one day he wouldn't make it back. How many buildings could one leap before falling? How many bullets could a man dodge before one finally found its home? Roger took solace in that the man was so skilled he was almost untouchable. He was a lethal weapon and men like that didn't rest on the other side of the call. He clung to that knowledge, held it as close to his chest as possible without suffocating. Riggs was gone, he was on his way to Texas. He had finally moved on from a life on the edge of dying and had found something worth living for. It couldn't possibly be him.

The location of the call rang home. A location all too familiar, a place he knew. A place Riggs had every right to be and yet caused Roger such fury at his partner's freedom to be there.

You stupid son of a bitch, you were supposed to be gone!

He pushed harder on the pedal.

Roger pulled up next to the abused, cream and orange, two-toned F-350. The bullet holes littering the side displaying a few new patches. He scanned the solemn expanse, his eyes fighting to remain on the safety of the vehicle as he once again pushed his apprehension aside. It could all be coincidence, Riggs could have been first on scene. The infinite possibilities flooded his mind as he grasped at the elusive straws, his instinct screaming in rebellion.

Every muscle in his body urged him into motion, attempting to propel him to where he knew he had to go. The only place that this could end; the place it began. He forced the impulse away and proceeded with caution, knowing the shooter could still be in the vicinity, it could make the difference between salvation or execution.

The intangible wall that struck his chest as he approached Miranda's grave physically forced him back a step. A too familiar form lay still, a bloodied shirt discarded beside him. Roger quickly cleared the space between them with inhuman speed, landing hard on his knees beside Riggs' blood-stained body. He barely registered the two figures he had sideswiped as he had charged to the ground. Someone was talking. The elusive sounds rolled around him. He eyes captivated by the motionless body before him.

"pressure"

"Bleed out"

"The wound"

Reality snapped him back into the moment with a surreal thud. He recognized it as his thumping heart. The man above him was telling him to keep pressure on the wound.

His lips moved, but no sound escaped. He forced the man's button-up to Riggs' chest and maintained pressure.

"No, no, no, no, no! You don't get to do this! You don't get to die today, Riggs!" He had yelled it, but the words came out too softly. The gentle breeze that scooped them up and spat them out as a whisper a tender plea. He worried that his partner wouldn't hear him.

"Riggs! Not today, not now, not like this…" his voice firmer this time, the words one last desperate bargain.

Roger could feel the slow rise and fall beneath his blood-soaked fingers. Labored breaths broke through his addled mind. He realized his own was held deep within his chest, these belonged to his partner. He recognized the fragility of each ragged sound. Roger attempted to pull his mind from the panicked semi-focused state to which it had escaped as the call of sirens registered somewhere in the distance.

"Stay with me, Riggs. For once, do as I ask." His efforts so consumed on keeping the oozing red from spilling out the Texan's chest he didn't notice the paramedics take up the space beside him. He was pulled aside as more capable hands took over his work.

He sat there for a moment, unable to move. He felt rough denim drape across his skin and looked up to see a small woman placing her jacket over his shoulders, he was barely aware that he was shaking. She offered a solemn look of understanding as she stepped back to the man who had been keeping Riggs alive before he had arrived. Had she been behind him all along? He grasped the sleeve of the jacket, smearing blood along the small cuff as he gripped tightly for purchase. For something to pull him from the abyss.

"You should go with him," a small voice suggested. Roger realized it had come from the young woman. He nodded his thanks to the two strangers and stepped into the back of the ambulance before the paramedics had time to object.

His body jerked into motion with the movement of the vehicle, his eyes lingering on the place his partner had fallen before slowly drifting to the man lying still on the gurney, a paramedic working to keep him alive.

He had to make it, Roger wasn't ready to face anyone if he didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

Roger bathed in steady silence, the too firm chair of the waiting room biting into his back as he waited with baited breath for news on his partner. The sterile smells and neutral tone of the room causing him to feel out of place. Dried blood coated his shirt and spattered the fabric of his pants. He pulled his focus from the dark crimson stains to his palms, no longer saturated in the sticky substance but still feeling heavy with the burden of it.

Riggs had been caught off guard, alone and unarmed. No one had suspected Garret to come for him, not one detective had assumed him to be in danger. Roger should have. He should have made certain that Riggs was safe. Hell, with his partner's track record, he should have seen him to the damn moving truck and watched him drive away.

He could easily blame Riggs for making things difficult, for never asking for or accepting support even when he needed it. Roger didn't believe in the easy way out.

They had rushed Riggs away from him the moment he had touched solid ground. Roger attempted to explain that he was Riggs' next of kin, his frantic interjections fell on deaf ears as he was separated from his partner. Roger recalled the day he had presented Riggs with the idea. A few pieces of paper that would allow him and Trish to be there for Riggs each time he was dragged into the hospital.

Over the course of their partnership, Roger had been forced to witness the aftermath of each leap of faith or close call. He was perpetually left in the uncomfortable position of struggling to hold his tongue when he noticed the odd wince or misstep. They were safer in the field when they were both healthy and if he was privy to what ailed his partner, he could better assist him. It had seemed logical at the time, he had no one else, not until Molly, and in some curious way it had made Roger feel closer to the man.

*****

"Riggs! Stop running from me and sign the damn thing. It's not like it will do you any harm to put your signature on the dotted line. Look! Trish even put a big X next to it." Roger shoved the document towards Riggs' face as he shuffled past him, making sure to demonstrate the ease of finding the location to sign.

Riggs stopped mid-stride and puffed out a long huff of air. He dropped his shoulders and ran his hand through his hair in an obvious show of discomfort.

"What? It can't be such a big deal. It's just one piece of paper." Roger pleaded. He shook the document as if to demonstrate its substance.

"It's more than one sheet of paper," Riggs pointed out, eyeing the multiple sheets and letting out another sigh, "But it's not that."

"Well?! What is it then?" Roger raised his arms in question.

The scruffy detective rolled his eyes to the door beside them and Roger realized why he had stopped walking.

"I need to use the little boys' room, and I worry what people would think if you follow me in there with such intensity in your eyes." He offered, leaning in close under the pretense of privacy.

"Oh," Roger stammered.

Riggs pushed through the door leaving Roger to his silence.

"And what if signing that document is bad luck and something happens to me, huh? Didn't think of that, did you?" Accusing umber eyes peered out from behind the half-open door before he was gone again.

"Ridiculous!" Roger threw his hands up in another grand display of frustration. "I'm leaving these on your desk. Don't make me tell Trish you won't sign them." He yelled to the door, feeling silly about the whole ordeal.

*****

It had taken a few weeks of glancing at the untouched documents slowly becoming buried by more pressing items, such as old takeout containers and unfinished case files before he had brought it up again and many more weeks after that until Riggs had seen fit to sign them. A year later he still had not shared the reason he had held out so long. Roger made a note to ask him when he was well enough to answer. If he was ever well enough to answer. The threat of never having the opportunity loomed over him.

The blur of movement that accompanied their hectic arrival played itself out in his mind, watching helplessly as the gurney was wheeled away. Red stained clothing and pale stillness awaiting him each time he closed his eyes as he was ushered to a place out of the way to wait.

A soft and familiar voice shattered the dark cloud consuming him.

"Roger?"

His name on his wife's uncertain lips almost broke him, so much concern and heartbreak contained within one whisper. He could hear the rhythm of hustling footsteps and witnessed Trish's shoulders straighten forcing her slipping strength back into place as their children entered the room.

"Dad!" Riana was first to embrace him, her eyes holding back tears as she fought off the unwanted emotion.

Trish wrapped her arms around them both and pulled a solemn RJ into the warm cluster. They stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, unwilling to penetrate the space with the tender question resting on each of their minds.

Trish braved the waters, sparing her family the torment.

"Have you heard anything yet?"

Roger shook his head, realizing the absence of his voice did little to set his family at ease.

"He's still in surgery." Although the words were not necessarily comforting, he could sense some of the strain in the room lift at his words. Not daring to utter anything else on the matter he changed the subject. "Where's Harper?"

"She's with the sitter, I will have to stop by and grab her in a little while. We came straight here when we heard. I was at the office." Trish's voice was firm, her posture taut with contained emotion. Roger could see the well-concealed pain she held in her focused gaze. His wife was strong and her strength contagious.

"Riana and I can get her, Mom. Stay with Dad." RJ offered, standing beside his sister.

They were their mother's children, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in the young adults they had grown to be.

"No, you should stay together, I will be okay here. We won't be able to see him immediately, anyway. I will call as soon as I hear from the doctor."

"Roger, are you sure?" The pleading in her voice meant as an escape from the solitude she knew he would place around himself.

He wasn't.

"It will be more comfortable waiting at home than waiting here." He pushed, aware that he had not answered her question. From the look that passed her face his lack of response hadn't gone unnoticed.

"If you're sure?" She grazed his cheek with a kiss and pulled him close once more. He let her warmth engulf him. Her presence rallied his resolve, but he couldn't bring himself to face how he would take the news if his partner didn't make it, even with the added strength of his family.

His son offered a nod of his head, a silent motion of support as Riana squeezed his hand.

And then he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to put up a few short chapters each week for the rest of the story.
> 
> Thank you to my Beta, IrrelevantBeings, for painstakingly checking my work, yet again.


	3. Chapter 3

The scent of antiseptic and bleach made him dizzy as he lost the feeling in his ass for the third time in less than an hour. Roger stood on unsteady legs as the pins and needles subsided and began to pace the warn white tile.

Roger's heart leapt at the sound of knocking and he turned to the figure at the door.

"Erm, Hello. I don't know if you remember me, I was at the graveyard…" It sounded as if the young man wanted to say more but instead pulled his hand from the door back to his pocket.

Roger hadn't noticed much about the stranger at the graveyard. His light brown hair was cropped short, just above his ears, the front much longer than the sides and precariously stacked against gravity. He had changed since they first met, his jeans void of blood and his plaid button-up spotless. Roger realized he must have pushed the man aside in his haste to get to his partner.

"I'm sorry I think I shoved you. At the scene I mean, I didn't mean to push you aside." His voice wavered as he spoke.

"No, no, it's ok. I just came by to drop this off." The neatly dressed man pulled a golden shield tainted with dark red from his pocket and presented the item uncertainty. "I heard the shot. I don't know why I didn't run in the opposite direction. I just, well, I went to see if anyone was hurt." He paused a moment as if recalling the instance. "He was just lying there. This caught the light, it was in his front pocket. When I called 911 I knew to say he was a cop. But in the commotion, I guess I held on to it." The man took a few hesitant strides towards him. "I've never done anything like that before, but my mom's a nurse…" He uttered the last statement as if it was explanation enough for his actions.

Roger met the man halfway and slowly took the badge. He rubbed his thumb over the metal, flaking some of the dried blood to the floor. Its presence a somber memento across the pale tile. It was just like Riggs to hold onto police property, the action forced a smile to the corner of his lips despite the red staining the metal. He sorely hoped to have the opportunity to annoy the native Texan with that tidbit of information.

"What you did may have saved my partner's life. Thank you." Roger pulled his eyes from the ground as he grasped the man's hand.

"You're welcome. I'm Jake, by the way. Jake Mullins." Jake smiled for the first time since entering the room.

"…Roger Murtaugh. Nice to meet you, Jake." Roger attempted to ignore the hesitation before he spoke, he had become familiar with the recent title that preceded his name. Captain Murtaugh, it had sounded so right in recent weeks. Today it only existed to remind him of how he hadn't been there for his partner.

"Oh, before I forget, the jacket the woman you were with loaned me…" He relinquished his grasp of Jake's hand and turned to the seat he had last seen the small coat. Finding nothing but empty chairs he turned apologetically towards Jake.

"Maybe one of the nurses took it. It did have some blood on it. Don't worry, I'll get it back to you."

"I erm, I wasn't with a woman." Confusion lined the man's face and he again put his hands into his pockets, clearly a nervous habit.

Roger mirrored Jake's confusion. He had heard a woman's voice. He had seen her.

"But she was there," he insisted, "maybe another bystander. She had a denim jacket, she placed it on my shoulders. I think she had dark hair…maybe brown eyes."

"We were the only two there…apart from your partner," Jake responded with a concerned shake of his head.

Roger opened his mouth to counter but held his tongue. He had seen a woman. He had felt the jacket fall over his shoulders.

The red flecks littering the tile caught his eye again. Maybe he had remembered wrong, maybe he was just confused. Roger shook off the awkward exchange.

"I must have been mistaken. Thanks again for the badge." Roger gripped the shield tightly in his palm.

"Will he be okay? The Detective, I mean." Jake shuffled uncomfortably as he waited for a response.

The muffled chime of Rogers cell cut through the pain the question had invoked. He pulled the device from his pocket. Bailey, lit up the caller ID.

"I have to take this…"

"Yes, of course. I will erm…It was nice to meet you." The man turned and exited the room, leaving Roger with the weight of the unanswered question.

"Murtaugh." Roger's voice steadied as he focused on the neutral walls around him.

"Traffic cam caught Garrett Riggs running a light near the crime scene directly after the shooting. We put out a BOLO. I thought you should know." The silence that followed foreshadowed the incoming query. "How is he?"

Roger really wished people would stop asking him that.

"He's still in surgery. I haven't heard anything yet." He rattled off the automatic response, chiding himself for denying others the comfort he so deeply needed in the words that had not yet been spoken.

"Let me know if we get a hit on the BOLO." He asserted by way of ending the conversation. As the line clicked dead he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Roger eyed the chair mocking him with its discomfort before giving in to the fatigue now plaguing both his mind and body. Jake's reaction had unsettled him. Had he really lost his grip on reality so quickly?

He felt the heavy tug of gravity against his limbs as he settled into what would pass for comfort for the next few hours. Roger let his mind wander, but found nowhere comforting for it to settle. He gazed, instead, at his distorted reflection in the metal of Riggs' detective shield, hoping that Riggs would fight as hard for himself as Roger would for him.

***************************

Riggs felt an overwhelming pressure pushing him downward, a giant weight pressing into his chest while the rest of his body remained strangely afloat. His thoughts were leaden and sluggish as the constant throb blossoming in his torso refused to subside.

He could feel people moving about him, constantly in motion, a buzz of communication consuming the air around him. At least he thought it was air, maybe it was water. Was he drowning? No, he could breathe, couldn't he?

The strange pressure continued to build. His breath held hostage as he struggled to take in another.

More sounds echoed around him, a familiar voice making its way towards him. At first, he couldn't place it, a lingering weakness littered the broken tone, adding to the difficulty of recalling its origin. He closed his eyes tighter to the pain emanating from his center and concentrated on the sound. He followed it, its pitch strangely calming.

He opened his eyes, the sky so blue, its expanse unending as he gazed through half open lids. He felt almost serene, despite the piercing jolt that rushed through his body with each labored breath. This was what he had wanted, wasn't it? An end to the suffering, an escape from a life void of those he loved. Only, things were more complicated now. He could think of several reasons to stay, to try, to live.

Molly, Ben…there were more names he was forgetting. His concentration was torn from the warmth of belonging as the pain sent another shock through him. The source of the voice he had struggled to place was now above him, rambling about what he was and wasn't permitted to do. Roger. How could he forget Roger? The man that had put up with his shit for the past two years, was pleading with him to do something. He was always prodding and pushing, but Riggs' figured his partner had earned that right.

A sudden reprieve from the pressure pinning him to the grass was followed by a distant plea. "Stay with me, Riggs. For once, do as I ask."

As foreign hands reapplied the painful hold on his chest, he fought to keep his eyes open. The empty azure sky taunted him as the California sun warmed his cheeks. He basked in the feeling, a sensation he would be denied if he gave in. He realized at that moment that he wanted to live, to feel the heat on his skin and gaze into Molly's eyes, to witness Ben grow up, to make sure Roger came home safe to Trish. They needed him. He couldn't leave them. He didn't want to go.

The blue faded as the shapes that comprised the world around him blurred into each other, his effort to stay conscious taking its toll. He attempted to grasp something solid from the slowly evaporating scene, his fingers fumbling between blades of crisp grass. It was the only tangible thing he could find within the surreal space.

Maybe he was drowning after all. He let the waves of agony rush over him as he submitted to the sensation.

"Fight for them, Martin." His longing for the voice that carried those words cut through the haze overwhelming him. Miranda.

Riggs rallied one last time, forcing his eyes to focus on the form before him. Unmistakable locks of swaying ebony framed the soft, forgiving face of his wife. Her kind russet eyes penetrating his core and creating a buffer between the pain and his mind. He had never been able to deny her in life, and now was no different.

The abrupt sensation of something covering his face was accompanied by a welcome rush of air. He desperately sucked in the newly found oxygen, obeying Miranda's words.

Riggs felt the soft caress of her fingers as they brushed the hair from his forehead. He closed his eyes, reveling in the comfort her phantom touch ignited. His battle for consciousness lost, but his will to fight revitalized. This war was far from over. He wouldn't give those who wanted him dead the satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I plan to have the next chapter up on Sunday.
> 
> Reviews, follows, and faves are appreciated and feed the muse, she's a rowdy beast and likes to eat multiple times a day.


	4. Chapter 4

A light shake of his shoulder pulled Roger from slumber, his body stiff from the unforgiving furniture.

The eyes that greeted him were red with worry.

“Roger. Is he…?” Molly’s voice was a whisper.

He swept the sleep from his eyes and stood to face her. Molly was as tough as they came, in many ways she reminded him of Trish. Any woman who could hold down Martin Riggs deserved multiple medals for the achievement. The woman who faced him now seemed to be at her breaking point and Roger fought hard to push the guilt aside.

“He’s still in surgery.” Roger cursed the surgeons for taking so long. Though not feeling the rest of a deepened sleep he must have dozed off for at least an hour. He checked his watch to avoid Molly’s pain-ridden gaze. He should have prevented this heartache, that’s what partners were supposed to do.

4:23. He had slept for just under an hour.

Molly held her arms crossed against her body, gripping her own triceps in mock comfort. Roger wanted to console her, but felt he hadn’t the right.

“He said he would be right back. We were supposed to be on the road to Texas.” The words toppled the fragile dam holding her tears in place. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t easy for you either. I just, I…” Molly straightened, wiping a sleeve across her face. “I have to take Ben home, I don’t want him waiting here. He’s already been through so much with Jake,” She took another swipe from her sleeve and gestured towards the door. “I left him at the nurses’ station. One of them said she would watch him.”

“If you want to stay I can ask if Trish could watch Ben for a while. She’s at the house with Riana and RJ. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Molly hesitated for a moment.

“If you’re sure, I could drop him off and head straight back.” Relief flooded her cheeks, the time spent keeping her tears from her son taking their toll.

“Of course, I’ll let her know you’re on the way.” Roger offered a meek smile, thankful that he could offer some kind of assistance in the matter.

Molly offered one last glance before heading for the door.

He collapsed into his still warm chair and rest his head in his hands. Roger had witnessed many things in his lifetime, had visited the hospital on multiple occasions. He had lost people too early, but he had never felt this helpless.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. He needed to call Trish. The screen lit up at his touch, a column of activity consuming it. Each message and missed call screamed his failure to give them what they needed. Nothing but news of his partner’s recovery would ease his pain. How was he supposed to summon the words to ease the suffering of others?

 

****************

The two men at the door stood as if they had each been assigned a long pole up their ass to assist them in the arduous task. Nathan Riggs watched the unmoving couple perched just outside the infirmary barring him from freedom. The large reinforced glass windows taunted him. Of course, they were not the only thing that stood in his way. The walls and many personnel of New Folsom Prison would be obstacles he would have to overcome. Well, that and the massive pulsing headache now permeating his brain. If his incarceration had taught him anything over the years, it was that influence could be used anywhere, and behind bars, it was much more effective than a shiv.

“Hey! I want my phone call!” He commanded for the seventh time in little under an hour.

The isolation of the infirmary had begun to grate on his nerves. Likely, the attempted murder of a police officer was a contributing factor to his poor treatment. Martin had earned the discipline he had received. That boy had never been worth the air Nathan had allowed him to breathe. Worse yet, he never appreciated the lengths his father had gone to for him. If it weren’t for his influence, the boy would be long dead by now. 

Nathan appreciated the role his eldest son had unwittingly played in his recent parole. The pounding in his head and the not so friendly surroundings, however, lead him to believe that Martin had outlived his usefulness. If the boy thought things had been difficult before, he had no idea how hard they could become. Nathan was not above making the odd mistake, but Martin had underestimated him. He had never attempted to end his son’s life, only teach him that his pops was a target not worth pursuing.

The tide had shifted after Martin had gone after Garret. That act could not go unpunished, and now Nathan’s hand had been forced.

“Phone call!” He hollered again to no avail.

Repeat offenders were not normally subject to many niceties upon return to their familiar home, but his reach went far, and he would not have to wait long for things to finally fall in his favor. The many pieces he had manipulated to cloud his intentions in his son’s and the LAPD’s eyes had assimilated perfectly. He had gained his freedom and set himself up to take his rightful place on top of the food chain. This was just a minor setback.

Nathan let his head settle further into the dense pillow beneath it and let the many possibilities filter through his pounding head. There were many loyal men willing to act on his behalf, but there was only one that would bring him the satisfaction he desired.

The door opened, an unfamiliar guard made his way towards where Nathan lay, eyeing him as if he had just stolen a small child’s candy.

“One phone call.” The guard stalked to the receiver on the other end of the room grasping the landline and abruptly placing the phone next to Nathan.

He looked to the guard, waiting for him to leave. After a few agitating moments of silence the man surrendered and moved to the door, leaving Nathan with some semblance of privacy.

Content with the reprieve from prying ears, Nathan made the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nineteen chapters planned for this fic in total, a few already awaiting the grace of my grammar overlord. The story demands short chapters, but should end around 25,000 words. In case anyone was wondering.
> 
> Next chapter goes up on Wednesday.


	5. Chapter 5

He was about to say something clever when the chime of his cell echoed off the walls. Not recognizing the number on the caller ID he answered tentatively, pulling a few annoyed looks from his comrades. 

“Sheppard.”

You have a collect call from Nathan Riggs, an inmate at California State Prison Correctional Facility. This call may be monitored...blah, blah, press 5 to take the call, blah.”

Sheppard’s finger hovered over the end-call button before he reluctantly tapped 5. This time the black eyes that scrutinized him bore a hole directly through his soul. The woman responsible rested her hands on her hips in quiet challenge. Her small yet strong frame baiting him into an argument. The woman loved conflict, almost as much as she loved him.

“Hello, Shep.” The cold, gruff voice brought forth a stream of memories. Most of which he would rather forget. He glanced to the love of his life and offered a cheeky grin reveling in the quiet fury she tempered. 

“Son-of-a-bitch!”

“I know, it's been a while, son.” Nathan’s overly friendly tone prickled at his skin.

“No. I mean, what do you want, You son-of-a-bitch!” Sheppard found himself grateful he wasn’t having this conversation in person. He wasn’t sure he could control his anger without the distance the line afforded.

His overly large companion on the opposite side of the room chimed in, picking up on the tension Sheppard held in his shoulders. 

“Come on, Sheppard. Don’t be like that, I got a proposition for ya, and I’m kinda on the clock so if you could cut the crap, it would be appreciated.”

He let the silence build, making the senior Riggs aware of his lack of cooperation. He began tossing crisp stacks of hundreds into the bag across the room, occasionally varying his target to include the heavyset meathead pushing bearer bonds into the same duffel. The cuss words tossed his way at the action urging him on.

“Shep, if you keep doing that, ima make you swallow the fuckin thing!” The gruff sound of Drax’s voice littered with a heavy Aussie accent.

Sheppard brought his finger to his lips, motioning Drax to quiet, and gesturing to the phone before pelting another stack towards his head. The attack forcing the large man to toss aside the almost full sack and stalk a few steps towards him. 

Drax’s eyes met the icy blue of his own, challenge marring his features. Shepard was always up for an opportunity to stretch his muscles. A match against a man twice his size would allow him to quell his nervous energy. 

Sheppard held his gaze, purposefully ignoring the annoyed yells emanating through the cell a foot from his ear. Drax was large, but he had handed the man his own ass on many occasions. Not that his combative skills were subpar, the man was a fellow ex-SEAL after all. 

After a few sullen moments, Drax broke eye contact and began mumbling to himself. All delightfully wonderful comments about his charming company, Shep was sure. 

“Sheppard! Are you still there?”

“Kinda in the middle of something right now, Nathan. Can I call you back?” He took satisfaction in the stifled aggravation growing on the other end of the line, Nathan holding his tongue before asking his favor. 

“I left some old clothes at my place, they need tossing out. You still in that line of work?” The familiar phrase shrouded the true meaning behind them. I have a target, seek out and eliminate.

He attempted to fill another silence with a fourth lob of currency, only to feel the ridiculously strong grip of small fingers around his forearm. The motion followed by a slap across the side of the head. Haze’s glare reminding that this was hardly the place for his usual shenanigans. He pocketed the money instead and brought his attention back to the call. 

“I’m still in the shit needs to get done, I occasionally do it, line of work if that’s what you mean. But I don’t take jobs from assholes.” Drax stood at that, his interest peaking at the mention of a job.

“You never had that issue before, besides, these are some very particular clothes.”

“Yeah, and why’s that?” He spat.

“They belong to Martin.”

“Not interested.” He shot back without hesitation, chewing his bottom lip out of habit.

“What the hell do you mean ‘not interested’?! I just wasted my one phone call on this, you twisted little shit. I figured you would want to take care of this. It’s your dirty laundry, boy!”

“I’m over it.” He lied.

“You don’t get over something like that!”

Sheppard contemplated not answering.

“It was nice catching up, Nathan. Now, fuck off.” He tossed the phone across the room, this time coming slightly closer to hitting Drax than he had intended, the large man didn’t even flinch.

Sheppard caught movement from the corner of his eye and rounded the pistol held loosely in his palm level with the figure’s chest. He pulled the trigger watching the lifeless security guard fall limply towards the ground. The collective screams the sound brought forth adding an edge to the otherwise quiet room.

“I TOLD you to stay on the carpet. Now I look like the bad guy. Why do they never listen?! ” He directed the question towards Drax, receiving a shrug in return. He jumped off the desk he was perched on and gestured for his team to make for the exit. 

“Now, play nice and keep your noses on the carpet and nobody else gets shot.” He suggested as he grabbed his own bag and headed for the door. 

“This heist was brought to you by Sheppard Incorporated. Please don’t forget to leave a comment in the reviews section.” With that, he beelined for the passenger side of the getaway car leaving the twelve bank-goers splayed on the floor in silence.

“If you stopped playing around so much during these things, people may not try to be the hero all the time. Act distracted and they assume you to be distracted. And Haz, stop making it so easy for him, you big baby!” Maze chided as she pulled off the balaclava masking her flowing ivory locks and contagious smile. She started the car and pulled into oncoming traffic the locals seemed to be used to the abrasive driving style. The yellow cab blended seamlessly with the mundane inconvenience of the overpopulated roads of New York City. 

“His name’s Drax.” He slipped his own woolen cover off his head, leaving a uniform field of sandy brown standing on end.

“No, his name is Harry. The name my mom gave him when she named me. You just keep calling him Drax cus of that damn movie.” Often Sheppard pondered how the two could be related. They were so drastically different in almost every way and yet, they were twins. Haze had ivory flowing locks that contrasted with her almond skin, her muscular frame standing at five feet even, but still as endearingly ferocious as a rabid puppy. Drax was built like a monster truck that ate smaller monster trucks, his hair a few shades darker and his skin slightly lighter. Together they resembled Rocket and Groot.

“Haze, how dare you?! That ‘damn’ movie is a masterpiece and, not the reason…the comics are the reason.” He pulled a stack of bills from the duffel and tossed it between his hands, taking a whiff of that ‘new money’ aroma. “Drax, take off your mask. You look ridiculous.”

The giant offered a scowl Sheppard could feel from beneath the material shrouding his features. He fought to stifle a laugh. Drax’s bark was much worse than his bite, at least among present company. 

“What was the call about?” Drax didn’t look at him as he spoke, his eyes darting to the rear to monitor for tails. 

Sheppard didn't feel like going into details, but vacating the city while the heat died down did sound like a good idea. He pretended that was the only appeal Nathan’s proposition held. 

“How do you two ladies feel about a vacation? I hear LA is wonderful this time of year.”

****************  
“Roger Murtaugh?” The Surgeon’s hushed tone marked that of a woman versed in breaking news to waiting family members.

Roger nodded his head as he unlocked his gaze from the wall.

“I thought you would like to hear that Martin Riggs is out of surgery.”

“How is he?” Roger sat up straighter in anticipation of the news, wincing slightly at the ache in his back and the tightness of his muscles.

“He’s doing well, considering. He’s quite the fighter, that one. He survived the surgery and that’s the hard part. We are hopeful that with time and rest he will make a full recovery.” She smiled then and Roger noticed that her scrubs were the same color as her deep jade eyes.

“Oh, you don’t know Martin Riggs. I think the resting part will be the hardest part for him.”

“He’s one of those, huh? Well, it will be up to you to ensure he does rest, then.” Her smile morphed into a grin.

“Thank you, Doc. When can I see him?”

“He is still in the ICU, we will need to keep a close eye on him for now, but I believe we will be able to move him in a day or two. He can have visitors one at a time and for no longer than ten minutes until he is moved to a private room.”

He nodded again, words not enough to convey his gratitude.

With one last smile, she left the room. Roger realized he hadn’t asked the surgeon her name. He felt that was important. He should know the name of the woman who had saved his partner’s life. He made note to look into it later.

He pulled his cell from his pocket, he had a few calls to take care of first.


	6. Chapter 6

Garret whipped his head around to make sure he wasn't being followed. His paranoia getting the best of him as he hurried across the road to a rundown bar with a half-illuminated sign above the entrance that read "Bull's." The bar was silent, or at least in darkness.

He glanced back one more time before hurrying down the steps leading to the back entrance of the establishment. This place was familiar. He had frequented the locale since he was sixteen. His father had been building bridges for him, even from behind bars.

As he entered the large room littered with empty poker tables, he was greeted by a familiar face.

"Bull's looking for you, Garret. He's in the back. He wants to know what took you so long." The statement was more of a warning than an inquiry, and he knew better than to attempt to explain himself.

The dark, barren room seemed too quiet, its tables normally host to a plethora of unsavory gambling types. He made his way toward the back room to a moderately sized office where his dad's subordinate would be waiting. He hesitated at the door. His hands shook as the weight of the 9mm in his beltline filled him with a sense of pride. He had accomplished what no one else could. It had been so easy, so why was he so nervous?

He pushed past the door.

"You were supposed to be here hours ago."

The silence that followed felt more threatening than the words themselves.

"I had business." Garrett braved the waters. He had done what had to be done. His eyes fell to Bull's designer shoes standing firm before him. His own ratty sneakers betrayed his nerves in the unsteady twitch of his feet, ready to bolt for the door to save his own skin.

"The only business you have is the business I give you." Bull wasn't known for raising his voice. He was a man of action, and if you couldn't fill in the blanks before he decided to act. Well, you were shit outta luck.

Deciding that it was in his best interest to be forthcoming, Garrett continued,

"No one else was willing to do it. I followed him from the station. He went to a party. He beat in my dad's head, guaranteed he went back to jail, and then went to a fucking party! When he left, I did too. He went to a graveyard. It was empty, so easy. I just, I shot him." It felt good to let the words out, to tell someone what he had done.

There were no words, only action.

He felt the hard sting of metal crack against his cheek as Bull's knuckles thrashed against his head, the large golden ring adorning the large man's index finger donned for the distinct purpose of breaking skin.

The force of the blow had knocked him to the floor and he felt a warm trickle of blood run down his jaw.

"Your father didn't want him dead. He wanted him out of the way." The statement stung. He had always wondered why Martin hadn't been put underground. Now he had his answer. His dad still cared about his eldest son, even if all he did was try to tear their family apart. "Did you kill him?" The question was met with silence.

This time the strike brought little dancing dots to the corners of his vision and forced the gun at his belt to skid across the carpet.

"You kept the fucking gun?! Did anyone see you?" Bull crouched and picked up the weapon with a plain handkerchief he pulled from his suit pocket.

"No, I didn't think…Nobody saw me. I shot him in the chest. He must be dead," He rambled as he braced for the next hit. It never came.

Garret felt the tension in the room lift and opened his eyes to an empty office. He could hear Bull talking to his muscle by the door.

"Find out if he's dead, and let Nathan know what happened. I want to know what the cops know."

He heard the door slam closed, signaling that he was now alone with the well-dressed second in command.

"You're done here. I'm sending you back to your mother until this shit storm calms down. I'll take care of the rest."

******************  
Roger had passed the good news on to those awaiting the call. Trish and the kids planned to stop by when Riggs was out of the ICU, which would only take a day or so. Molly was on her way back, but knowing LA evening traffic, she would be a while.

Roger took advantage of the lull in visitors to pay his partner a visit. The nurse had warned him that Riggs would be sedated. When he walked into the room, however, the quiet vulnerability of the man forever in motion shook him. A sharp inhale dried his throat as his feet fastened to the floor. The whole situation felt wrong.

He forced his legs slowly forwards, his hands grasping the back of a chair close by. He was grateful for the solid metal grounding him in the moment.

For a while, he just stood.

His eyes skirted the outline of his fragile friend, his partner, the man he hadn't protected. The wires running his form were a stark reminder of the damage Roger hadn't prevented.

He felt his body fight to leave the chair and escape the harsh reality before him.

He stepped forward and took a seat beside his partner.

"You shouldn't be here," His tone fell flatly across the quiet humming of the machines, "but you are. Because of me. I wasn't there when you needed me. All the times you were there for me…" Roger studied his interlocking hands, too warm even in the cool room. "I'm so sorry." The words tumbled silently over the quiet and rhythmic beeping accompanying the rise and fall of Riggs' chest.

Roger let out a strangled laugh.

"You know, it's much easier to talk to you like this." The smile disappeared.

******************  
Bailey watched the frantic motion of the precinct. The aftermath of the shooting had left its mark on the face of every officer and detective of the LAPD.

She had witnessed the harsh reality the crime scene had carried. The questions that needed asking, the evidence that had to be logged, and the photos to be taken, had allowed her a buffer between the work and remembering whose blood drenched the grass around her shoes.

It was almost harder to be surrounded by these faces, to watch the aggravation, sorrow, or pity that dressed them. Each empty conversation an attempt to ease the mounting frustration. The vacuum created by the missing words consumed every silence.

Bailey felt for the cell in her back pocket. Its presence was comforting, yet did little to quell the desperation for it to interrupt her from her work. She looked to the Captain's office, needing a distraction from combing over the same surveillance videos over and over again, seeing nothing but the monotony of a busy morning in LA.

Avery was sitting at his desk, Rogers desk. She still hadn't gotten used to Murtaugh's promotion. She had become familiar with Avery's leadership and had found the shift in roles unsettling. It wasn't that Murtaugh was undeserving of the position- he was the hardest working cop she knew and had the experience that went with it... but there was an underlying ease that accompanied Avery's leadership, an ease that was mirrored in Murtaugh's role as Detective. Maybe it was the loss of a man she trusted with her life in the field that had forced these feeling to surface.

Avery had remained in place as her mind had wandered, his stare extending past the opposite wall. She could see the concern in his eyes as he held his shoulders square. His facade was delicately held by fragile scaffolding.

"Anything?" Scorsese had a habit of appearing at the most inopportune moments, leaving remnants of unimportant information to roll off unlistening ears. She had never been happier to hear his voice.

"Roger hasn't called yet."

"No, not that. I mean, I was going to ask that as well, but I meant have you found anything in the surveillance footage?"

"No, just the same useless information on a loop," She huffed and tucked a fussy strand of hair back behind her ear.

"If you want fresh eyes, I'm available." Bailey could sense the desperation to feel of use in his tone.

"Scorsese, you're not a detective."

"I know that, but we are all on the same team."

"Knock yourself out." Bailey rolled her chair aside and gestured at the monitor, happy for the company.

She glanced once more to her old captain before settling into the task of finding the bad guy, this time with Scorsese's assistance. She smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks.


	7. Chapter 7

“I can't believe you sometimes, Martin. You know, it’s just like you to find trouble just as we’re leaving.” Molly struggled out a strangled laugh through the tears.

There had been a time when Martin’s fragility was worn closer to the surface. It was a dark time when his father had spiraled from stubborn and stern to viscous and volatile. His turn so subtle that Martin himself had refused to accept the danger. She had watched the ordeal unravel. 

It had been difficult for Martin to voice his torment. The abrasions littering his skin and the silence resting upon his lips had twisted her gut. The depth at which he buried his suffering had only become deeper with time. When they reunited, Molly had been forced to bore through those layers just to reach him. It had been his eagerness to push her away from the agony that had driven them apart in the first place.

Nathan had played the same twisted game he had subjected his son to many years before. He had manipulated him into believing he was still his father, the man that had taught him to shoot, not the monster that had taught him fear. The marks he had left this time had been evident in more than the bruises and tears in Martin’s skin.

He had survived the encounter with Nathan, only to be shot down in a place that already carried with it the torture of loss. 

Molly reached out and grasped Martin’s hand. The contact grounded her. Nathan had done his best to drag Martin down, but she would do all she could to pull him back up.

She felt the shift of fingertips beneath her own and smiled at the man that had stolen her heart more than once.

Wayward strands of chestnut curls strayed over his forehead, standing as starkly as a shadow against the pallor of his skin. He lay still with only the motion of restless fingers and the crinkle in his brow to paint the picture of pain he would never express.

Martin Riggs’ ability to survive against all odds had never shocked her. His refusal to go down, even when the world tried its best to beat him into submission, was one of his best qualities. Molly knew Martin like most never would. The wires and machines that held him hostage highlighted the vulnerability she knew lay beneath the surface. She saw through the impenetrable walls he had built around himself, the bricks that composed it constructed to protect those he cared for from the despair that ate away at his being.  
She had watched the mortar slowly crumble. 

Becoming a father to Ben, a partner to her, a brother to Roger, had shown him that it was worth letting people in. He had finally found what he had given up on for so long. She wouldn’t let anyone take that from him. She wouldn’t let anyone take him from her.

She squeezed his hand tightly in her own.

“Martin Riggs, you focus on getting better, okay? We need you. I need you.” She rest her head on the back of his hand refusing to relinquish her grip. The connection placated her fitful mind, as if physically holding him would prevent him from letting go.

****************  
Bull stalked the busy tables of the large room. Roars of agitation and celebration mixed within the space as money was lost and won. There was something elegant about the game played in this space. The stakes rest on how you held yourself, your ability to read your opponents, and how well you could bluff. A game of few words. A game he favored greatly. 

He studied a few interactions. A smart man never let others see his true intentions. He couldn't ignore the admiration he held for those that could unsettle with idle chatter yet say nothing of true conscience. Bull preferred to be known for his actions, not his words. Actions that now had to be executed due to the incompetence of Nathan’s youngest son. 

He had found that not only had Garret failed to kill his brother, but had done a shit job in covering his tracks. He had received the call shortly after he had learned Martin Riggs’ status. Nathan wanted his eldest son dead. When he had discovered that Garrett had already botched the job, he had been furious. 

Well, at least the task was half complete. All Bull had to do was send in a man to finish the job. How hard could it be to kill a man with a hole in his chest?

He texted the location and details from his burner phone, content in allowing one of his subordinates to complete the assignment. Soon, Martin Riggs would be no more. 

****************  
Riggs fiddled clumsily with the wires running from the back of his hand. His body felt sluggish. His thoughts slushed within his skull as the remnants of the heavy drugs they had used to ease him into recovery toyed with his brain. The sharp, dry sensation in his throat signaled his need for water. Seeing a cup within reach, he leaned gingerly towards it. The morphine that flooded his system left only a lingering ache within his chest as he fought to sit up, the world tipping slightly on its axis as he left the comfort of his pillows.

His fingers cupped the edge of the plastic. He stretched a few centimeters further, the tug from his center becoming more of a intense throb than a distant hindrance. He hissed as the pain mounted, forcing the cup off the edge of the table. Water and plastic crashed to the floor startling the figure Riggs had only just noticed sleeping a few feet away.

“Unbelievable!”

Even with the drugs Riggs recognized his partners accusing tone before Roger had a chance to utter another objection. The pain rising in his chest won over the temptation of taunting his partner. He gritted his teeth and waited for the searing within to subside.

“Ouch.” He felt the statement efficiently articulate considering the odd tilt of the room and the raw quake through his chest.

“Idiot. Here let me…” Roger helped ease him into a more comfortable position despite his objections.

“mmfine.” Riggs mumbled.

“Yes, you look wonderful.”

Riggs decided that wasn’t worth a response. 

Roger poured another cup from the pitcher nearby and handed it to him. Riggs slowly tipped the cup to his lips, making sure not to spill the hard-earned bounty all over himself.

“You had us all worried.” Roger’s words sat uncomfortably in the air.

Riggs pushed aside the guilt building in his stomach, or was that hunger? 

“Molly stopped by earlier. She went to grab a bite to eat. I can go get her if you’d like?”

Nope, definitely guilt.

He could vaguely remember a one sided conversation Molly had held with him while the powerful grasp of the drugs had clutched him in oblivion. 

He cleared his throat and slowly pushed his hair from his face, wincing at the contortion forced upon his body at the action.

There was another conversation he had missed while he was out. One that contained words rarely spoken and feelings left buried under forced laughter. The lingering voices echoed through his fuzzy mind. “I'm sorry”

“You find Garret? He’s the one responsible for this.” It was an off hand tactic, but it’s all he had to give. He hoped his partner would understand. 

“Not yet. Caught footage of him running a light near the scene. We have a BOLO out. With your statement he’s ours.” 

Riggs took another gentle swig from his cup, the small exertion draining him. Roger seemed to sense his discomfort. 

“Do you need me to get the nurse?”

“Jus need to rest.” He mumbled blarily. 

“Yeah, rest up. Doc says you will be out of the ICU tomorrow.”

“Mmm? Good.” Riggs gave in to the alluring darkness of closed eyelids. He let the gentle beeping of the monitors lull him back to senselessness, a place numb to the pain that lingered in Roger’s eyes and fear that rest in Molly’s tone.


	8. Chapter 8

Riggs eyed his Jello cup sitting just out of reach before glancing up at the equally hungry eyes sitting across from his bed. His system was moderately drug free since his move to the less stifling surroundings of the private room. The morphine drip served as the only substance to occasionally toy with his consciousness. He assumed one of the nurses had noticed his reluctance in its use, and saw fit to flood it into his system as he slept. He had felt the release the drug offered each time he had given into fatigue.

He tested the pain level with a slight shift of his weight. The challenge rest in reaching the cup before his competition. He was closer, but Ben was faster. Consequences be damned he jolted forward and felt the victory of the chilly cup against his fingertips. His celebration was short lived as Ben grasped the other end of the plastic. The motion caught up with him and he forced away the pain crashing through his center, a timid smile forcing its way to his lips and adequately masking the agony.

They each stood frozen in place, a contentious glare hovering between them.

"I leave you two alone for a few minutes and I come back to a Jell-O war?" Molly chided with a questioning smile as she strode into the space.

Ben released his death grip on the gelatinous treat and directed a desperate plea in Riggs' direction.

"I triple dog dared him that he couldn't get to the cup before I did." Riggs winked and tossed the jelly prize to Ben. He offered Molly a lopsided smile.

"Oh well, a triple dog dare? You can't ignore one of those." Molly ruffled the blond strands flopping over his head and Ben visibly relaxed.

"How are you feeling?" She asked.

"Peachy." He grinned. She wasn't fooled, but he was grateful for her silence.

The small bed shifted as Ben hopped up beside him and settled about devouring his Jello cup sans spoon. Riggs draped his arm over Ben's shoulders to allow them enough room for comfort. He winced at the motion, forcing a concerned glare from Molly.

A gentle shake of his head signaled his status. He punctuated the silent statement with a smile and squeezed Ben's shoulder in reassurance.

"When can you come home?" Ben asked between mouthfuls.

"Not long, kiddo." His eyes wandered to the challenging umber staring him down.

"Martin will be here for the rest of the week." She clarified, daring Riggs to refute the matter. She was very familiar with his habit of prematurely escaping from care. Luckily, she hadn't triple dog dared him.

"What your mom said." The energy fueling him had waned. Though his muscles no longer felt as if they had just come out of a blender, he could still feel the damage the bullet had torn through him. It wasn't the first time he had been shot, but this was the closest he had come to not making it back.

"Martin, why did the bad guy shoot you?" Ben's small form leant against him. He fiddled with the now empty plastic cup, waiting for his answer.

Molly took up arms against the query before the awkward question could drown them both.

"Sweetheart, it's complicated. You don't need to worry about that."

"Yeah, champ. The bad guys are always trying to shoot me, most of the time they miss." A wide grin consumed Riggs' face as he looked to Ben. His smile disappeared as he glanced at Molly. Her stern expression was a sure sign that he had said something wrong.

"What Martin means to say, is that his job can sometimes be dangerous. But he is very good at it so you shouldn't worry. Isn't that right?"

"Yep, that's what I meant." Riggs fussed at the top of his ear with a fidgety finger.

Ben wrinkled his brow and offered a steady nod. The motion most children made when they pretended to understand something an adult had failed to explain.

Roger strolled through the door, crushing the tension of another unasked question.

"Roger, Hey. Any news on...the er, bad guys?" Riggs' exhaustion fought its way into the sentence, his voice a shadow of its usual animation. Having Molly and Ben visit had lifted his spirits, but depleted what little of his energy reserves remained.

"Not yet." Roger waved his hand in greeting to Molly and Ben.

"When was the last time you took a shower?" His question directed at Roger, but in all honesty, both he and Molly looked as if they needed a nap and a hot meal. "I will be fine if you guys want to go home and catch up on some sleep."

"He's right, Molly. You take Ben and get some rest. I'll stay here with him."

"Rog, I was referring to all of you. I'm fine." He pushed the prickle of frustration aside. He hated when people spoke as if he wasn't in the room.

"Someone should stay…" Roger left the implication unsaid, but the looming threat of unfinished business remained present.

"Nobody's that stupid, Rog. Every cop in LA is looking for him." A few moments of uncertainty lingered as his partner battled with his conscience.

"Okay, just a quick shower and some food." Roger gathered himself and waited for Molly and Ben to say their goodbyes.

"We'll be back soon. Behave yourself, Martin." She planted a gentle kiss on his cheek and gave him one of her enchantingly energising smiles. The kind of smile she had mastered when they were kids.

"Yes, mam."

Ben wrapped his arms around Riggs' neck. Riggs reciprocated to the best of his limited ability without pulling on his wound.

"Be good for your mom, huh?" Ben's overly enthusiastic nod assured him that he would be on his best behavior. Riggs stifled the unfamiliar sensation in his chest. The physical pain toying with his body was dampened by the rising warmth within. He didn't understand the feeling, but he didn't want it to disappear. Ben wasn't his son by blood, but he had become a part of his life that Riggs couldn't see living without. That terrified him. He remembered another time when he had belonged.

Roger flanked his bedside, forcing Riggs to clear his throat to hide the mounting crescendo of buried memories.

"Cahill is gonna stop by soon. Don't worry, she's visiting as a friend, not a shrink."

He caught sight of Roger's hand as it slipped out of view and felt the tantalizing dull fall over his mind as the morphine blocked his pain receptors.

"You just drugged me! Maybe Cahill should come all shrinky. I wonder what she would say about drugging unsuspecting victims." He moaned, raising an accusative hand to his partner.

"I did no such thing! You must be high." Roger's voice raised an octave defensively.

"Well, I amnow!" Riggs slurred, grateful for the drugs coursing through his system.

"You know if you would just press the button yourself, I wouldn't have to do it for you." Roger accused with a little more reservation.

"Pains not so bad, Roger. You get used to it." The look that fell across his partner's face as he gave in to the seductive tug of the drug indicated that he had, yet again, said something wrong. No longer possessing the energy to correct it, he fell into blissful oblivion.

****************************

The sound of the door closing pulled Riggs from fitful slumber. He had been chasing wakefulness for what felt like hours, fighting to rise only to be doused in the compelling stream of unconsciousness produced by the Morphine.

The fall of footsteps that followed were unfamiliar, the stride too short to belong to his partner and too heavy to be the nurse.

He cracked open his eyelids. Bleary brown eyes met their reflection in the blade of the knife above his neck. Riggs shifted his weight towards his attacker and thrust his palm up and away from his chest just in time to avoid getting skewered, the motion forcing the man's arm awkwardly across his own body. Riggs capitalized on the surprise that the sudden motion had elicited, propelling his knee into the man's stomach while pulling his head and shoulder towards him to intensify the blow.

The intruder crumpled to the floor, allowing Riggs time to gain ground. He took a few unsteady steps onto the cold tile. Adrenaline fueled his fury as he drove his fist upwards and hit the man square in the jaw. Riggs couldn't suppress the tearing sensation that drilled through his torso with the action and dropped to one knee clutching his chest.

Short-stride stood, his knuckles white around the hilt of the blade as the dazed look in his eyes cleared and morphed into rage. The shock of scarlett adorning his scalp reminded Riggs of The Leprechaun. He allowed a short hoot of laughter to escape his lips as he pushed off one knee and side stepped the smaller man's charge.

He realized a little too late that his assailant, while slightly below average in height, was not small by any measure of the word. Unable to avoid the rush entirely, due to the sluggish remnants of the painkillers, Short-stride's shoulder smashed him toward the ground. The exchange left a shallow gash across his side and expelled the air from his lungs.

Another step put short-stride in striking distance once more, this time Riggs kicked up with his foot, forcing the man reeling backward. He had just enough time to struggle back to his feet and replace his breath before the persistent man was upon him again.

Riggs shielded himself from the incoming blow with his forearm and felt the sharp sting of metal on flesh as the knife slipped through his skin. He grasped the man's fist with his opposite hand, bringing his free yet bloody arm down in an arcing motion. His elbow collided with short-stride's temple. He followed the attack with a headbutt for good measure, pummeling short-stride to the tile with a satisfying thud.

Riggs swayed on shaky legs as he studied the rip in his forearm. That was kinda a lot of blood. He peered downwards and noticed more of the sticky red warmth coating his side. That couldn't be good.

He pitched forward into small yet comforting arms and felt his form lowered gracelessly onto the chilly floor as the familiar but frantic call of Maureen Cahill permeated the room.

"I need a doctor in here now!"

"Hey Doc. Good timing." He offered his best grin in attempt to lift the concern adorning her small, sharp features. "I think I may be bleeding."


	9. Chapter 9

"What the hell do you mean, 'he was stabbed'?" Roger channeled his frustration into the words. He had only enough time to drop Molly and Ben at their home before he heard the news.

"No! Put two men on his door and keep me updated. I'm on my way there now!" He wasn't sure where to direct his fury, meaning everyone in his direct vicinity would obtain an equal helping.

He decided that keeping Molly and Trish out of the loop, for now, would be a mercy. The news would be the last thing they needed.

The speedometer spiked as he charged back to the hospital. Unsuspecting drivers scattered to avoid the champagne blur of the speeding ford.

Roger tore into the nearest parking spot and made his way hastily to Riggs' room, the bustle of patient and staff growing as he neared his quarry.

He hit the wall of activity before he made it to the door. Uniforms meandered the hallway and nurses silently scuttled past them. A short and stocky man stood in handcuffs, getting a quick once-over by the nurse. The wiry redhead's eyes were glazed in concussion as his pupils lagged to catch up to the light he was tracking. His face bared the marks of a scuffle with a mac truck...or Martin Riggs.

"I need to talk to him." Roger's tone was laced in ice.

"I have to check him out first." The nurse wagged the flashlight in Roger's direction, clearly frustrated at the interruption.

"He attempted to kill a detective currently under the care of your staff." The statement fell flatly from his lips. He was in no mood for pleasantries.

The nurse took a few hesitant steps back.

"Who sent you?"

Silence.

Roger clasped the collar of his partner's attacker and shoved him hard against the wall. The man's head jerked violently against the unforgiving surface.

"I said, who sent you?"

The nurse stepped in, forcing his arm between Roger and the redhead. The action forced a sly grin to form on the face of the aspiring assassin.

Roger jerked his hand back and pushed past his partner's attacker. The officer charged with booking the suspect firmly gripped redhead's bicep and tugged him back to his seat. He offered Roger a nod, letting him know he had the situation under control before giving his full attention to the task at hand.

Roger reached the room Riggs had occupied only hours before, his eyes instantly drawn to the newly formed crimson staining the tile. He had become too familiar with the color over the past few days and couldn't help but feel just as responsible for this pool of liquid as he did for the red stained grass at the graveyard. He shot one last threatening glare to the man responsible before leaving the officers to log the crime scene.

He stalked to the new location of his partner, finding Cahill leaning against the wall just outside. His anger and frustration mounted and crushed what little calm he had managed to maintain.

"He alright?" He needed to know what he was up against before he faced his partner again.

The look across Cahill's face assured that Riggs was alert enough to hear them.

"Emotionally or physically?" She spoke in quiet tones, answering his question with another query in her calm, shrink like manner.

"Is he more broken than when I left him?" Two could play at that game.

"He's downplaying his pain, physical and otherwise."

"So nothing new then." Roger regretted his line of questioning at the response. The subtle shake of Cahill's hands didn't go unnoticed, stumbling into the aftermath of the attack had rocked her. "How are you doing, Doc?" His tone softened as he raised a hand to the doctor's shoulder.

"Just worried about him."

"I know the feeling. You don't have to stay."

"I want to. I'm okay, Roger." The subdued reply seemed to be an attempt to persuade herself as well as him.

Roger squeezed Cahill's shoulder before making his way to the door. Two officers stood dutifully at the entrance. Roger could hear another taking Rigg's statement before he reached the door.

"The evil leprechaun tried to stab me, so I broke his face."

"And that's your official statement?" The officer didn't seem to be amused.

"Yup!" Riggs grinned.

"It's consistent with most of his other reports." Roger entered the room, forcing a smile to accompany his words.

"Oh hey, Rog! Long time no see. I was just about to call you. Trish and Molly okay?"

The dumbstruck officer made his way silently to the door, pausing for a moment before deciding it best not to push the matter any further.

Roger moved aside to let him leave. He tried to ignore the thick wrapping of crisp bandages covering the length of Riggs' forearm and the additional material that lay obscured under his hospital gown. He had gotten a summary of the man's new injuries over the phone. The deep tear in his right forearm would make it difficult for the man to use his right hand for the next few weeks and the shallow abrasion to his side was just another addition to the growing collage of scars he seemed to be collecting. Roger wished Riggs would collect coins or stamps instead.

"Yeah, I just dropped Molly and Ben off at her place."

"Okay great! I need you to go pick them up and tell the tools at my door to skedaddle. They won't listen to me and I used some real persuasive language."

"What the hell are you talking about? Did I press the morphine button too many times? Someone is out to kill you, Riggs."

"And if we make it difficult, then they will find some other way to get to me. How do you think they will do that huh, Rog?"

"They go after the ones they can."

"Exactly." Riggs made to stand, the wires attached to his skin tugging at the motion. Roger placed his hand on his partner's shoulder and pushed him back into bed.

"Will you lay back down! What you gonna do, flash the bad guys into submission?"

Riggs tilted his head in contemplation, seemingly considering the insane suggestion.

"If that's what it takes."

"You are in no condition to…"

"Roger, please?" The desperation of the plea cut him off. "I know my dad. He's the one behind this. I'm certain of it. He won't stop until he gets what he wants."

And how far will you go to stop him? Roger didn't want to know the answer. His hand remained on Riggs' shoulder, holding him in place. When he made no attempt to release his grasp, Riggs' facade slipped. The concern was visible in his taut shoulders. The dark within his irises glistened in raw vulnerability, forcing Roger to break his gaze.

"I will get some uniforms to pick up Molly and Ben."

"Not good enough. You go or I do." The finality in Riggs' tone was unsettling.

Roger fought with the need to stay by his partner's side. He wouldn't be responsible for another attempt on his life.

"Okay, but the detail stays." Roger waited for confirmation before taking any steps to leave.

A subtle nod was the only signal that Riggs had heard him.

He made for the door.

"And I want my gun!" Riggs called after him.

***************************************

Nathan stood in the yard, the sun assaulting his senses and forcing his aching head into overdrive. He submitted to the midday heat and found relief in the relative shade of a nearby guard tower. He loathed the weakness afforded him by his eldest son. The slowly healing laceration across his scalp and the constant need to keep the boy in line reminded him of his failures.

He had sacrificed everything to mold his sons into men. In return, he had received only disappointment. Martin cowered and ran from him, choosing to stand in his father's way over joining his own flesh and blood. That boy was as weak as his mother. Garrett's good intentions turned to hassle over his inability to use his damn head. He cursed the stupid boy for botching the attempt on Martin's life. He was certain that Garrett had acted on unchecked emotion, a misguided attempt to right the most recent in a long line of wrongs.

Now, he was forced to rely on others to take care of family business. He had hoped that Sheppard would have taken the job. Nathan would have loved to see the look on his son's face when the man he had saved more than once put a bullet in him. He was perfect for the job. Nathan doubted Martin would pull the trigger, even in self-preservation. Sheppard wouldn't hesitate to take out the man responsible for his dishonorable discharge and his place along the dark path he now lingered upon. At least, that's what Nathan had thought.

The heat beat unrelentingly into the dirt as he waited. His influence had allotted him time in the yard, despite his misdoings. The knowledge of which guard to bribe and what item each prisoner coveted was a precious commodity in a place where all you had was time.

The familiar square face of one of the guards made his way over to Nathan's shady corner.

"Hey, you there. I heard you gave some detectives a hard time while on parole!"

He fully expected the punch that carved into his gut.

"Bull's man failed. It won't be easy to get to him now." The burly guard whispered between taunts. "Maybe this will make you rethink your situation!" This time he bellowed the words for the yard to hear.

Nathan's fury was tempered only by the lack of air in his lungs. He remained doubled over as the guard grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"I don't care what it takes. We go after that perfect little family of his. The kid, the woman, even his partner. If we can't get to him, we get him to come to us." The hushed response scattered between each labored breath as the guard dealt him another blow to the abdomen. Nathan suspected he was enjoying the exchange a little too much.

He grasped ahold of the guard's sleeve, a signal that he had not yet finished his message.

"I want Garrett to be the one to do it. Don't send him alone, but make sure he fixes his mess." The quiet demand was punctuated with a swift shove into the dirt. Nathan landed hard and felt the rocky grains cut into his palms.

"Be on your best behavior from now on, inmate!" The guard stalked away from him with the last taunt.

The exchange went mostly ignored by guards and inmates alike. The flaws in the system a convenient cover for the less than honest dealings of those on both sides.

Nathan settled into the dirt and leaned his weight against the fence. The warm metal sat uncomfortably against his already hot back. He allowed himself a smile in the satisfaction of Martin's predicament. His eldest son's care for others had always been his weakness and now it would lead to his end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late post. Life knocked me to the ground, lit me on fire, then kicked me a few times for good measure.
> 
> I normally have a chapter edited and ready to go twice a week, however, I will be cutting back to posting only on Sundays for a while to ensure quality.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, reviews, and follows. I mostly write for myself, but reading the kind words from others in the fandom and seeing the follows helps keep me on track when other projects rear their evil little heads.

**Author's Note:**

> None of these characters belong to me, I am merely borrowing them.
> 
> A giant thank you to my Beta, IrrelevantBeings, and idea soundboard TatumTots. Without your patience for my excessive semicolon use and random spurts of inspiration throughout the day, I wouldn't have gotten any of this onto the page.
> 
> Authors Notes:
> 
> "Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models." – Sherlock
> 
> Martin Riggs was a character that imbued in me a love for the selfless, brave, unpredictable, and loyal. In my eyes, these traits are beauty incarnate. Not a physical quality, but a collection of attributes that can bring beauty to all.
> 
> As a child, watching the crazed detective accomplish death-defying feats to protect those he held dear with no care for his own wellbeing sparked what would grow into an undying passion for not only the buddy cop genre but my part in bringing them to life through the page.
> 
> Clayne Crawford's addition to The Lethal Weapon Universe revived the passion I had first experienced at the original character's hands. His revitalized, modern take on the classic persona renewed appreciation for old fans and brought the man to life for those new to the Lethal Weapon fandom.
> 
> Lethal Weapon without Martin Riggs is akin to Die Hard sans John McClain or Supernatural void of Dean Winchester.
> 
> I write for those that share my sorrow in the beloved character's passing and wish to remain in the blissful first step in the grieving process, denial.
> 
> This collection of stories will continue from the season two finale: 'One Day More'. I plan to continue each installment as a chapter fic to make up for the lack of additional seasons featuring Clayne Crawford as Martin Riggs. All reviews and alerts are encouraged and appreciated.
> 
> Warning: Adult language in later chapters.


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